


Stakeout

by khasael



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale is kind of intense, Humor, M/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-30
Updated: 2012-10-30
Packaged: 2017-11-17 10:01:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Forced to spend an evening stuck in a car, out in the middle of nowhere, with no one but Derek Hale for company, Stiles is just glad he thought to bring provisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stakeout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [groolover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/groolover/gifts).



> Written as a birthday gift (now belated) for the lovely, amazing groolover, who prompted "donuts". The things she puts up with from me as my frequent beta, you guys (the comma abuse, for starters, heh). It's only fair my first Teen Wolf fic be a gift for her. This turned out...not at all as originally planned. You know how it is. ;)

Stiles has done a lot of stuff with Scott -- a lot of stuff _for_ Scott -- during the span of their friendship, and that's going back years before Stiles's life was filled with supernatural creatures and trying not to get murdered. He puts up with a lot of shit from Scott and his half-baked ideas because...well, because Scott puts up with him, and his own ideas (which, at least, are slightly _less_ half-baked. Usually).

But Scott's asking a hell of a lot right now, and treating it like it's nothing, just a totally normal request a friend makes.

"I'm trying to figure out how it is I don't seem to have much of a choice," Stiles finally responds when Scott prompts him for an answer. He's gone with a lot of crazy plans in the last few months, and they only seem to get crazier. This, admittedly, doesn't _sound_ too insane, nothing so definitely danger-filled as half the stuff they've been through lately, and not nearly as illegal. But then again, Scott's not the one who's going to have to do this particular part of it.

"Just one night," Scott wheedles, and Stiles hates himself, because he knows he's about to cave. "I'll be out doing my part, but, uh, that's not something you can really help with."

"Because it's more wolf stuff," Stiles sighs. Scott's not exactly brilliant most of the time -- understatement of the year -- and Stiles only hopes whatever assignment he's about to embark on, Scott's wolf abilities sharpen his power of logic, and not just his ability to smell a pack of gum in someone's pocket from a few feet away. "All right, all right, _fine_. I'll do the stakeout. With him." That's the part that kills him, really.

Scott claps him on the back and grins, like anyone would totally be okay with being locked in a car with Derek Hale for several hours in the middle of the night out in the middle of nowhere. "C'mon, it's not that bad. Might even be kind of exciting. Total cloak-and-dagger shit."

Stiles always thinks of vampires when he thinks of cloaks, and the phrase makes him picture a vampire sneaking around, resorting to a long silver dagger instead of his fangs. Only this is all werewolves, not vampires.

And now Stiles can blame Scott for the thought of Derek Hale as a vampire, which is actually kind of hilarious, though Stiles will never, _ever_ say that aloud, because he actually likes living, thanks.

* * *

Derek shows up ten minutes after Scott said he would, pulling up in his shiny car and saying nothing other than "get in." Really, it's pretty much what Stiles expects from Derek, but he still can't help but huff a little as he climbs inside. "Nice to see you too, Derek." Derek doesn't say anything -- of course he doesn't -- but he raises his eyebrows just a little before he steps on the gas and zooms along, heading out of the main part of town at a speed that has Stiles wondering how Derek's managed to hang onto his license.

"I still would have rather taken the Jeep," Stiles mutters as they drive through some winding roads in the dark, working their way deeper into the woods and leaving asphalt for hard-packed dirt.

"Yeah, because no one's going to notice something that huge or that loud," Derek says, rolling his eyes and slowing as they apparently reach wherever it is they're going.

"Car like this isn't exactly inconspicuous," is Stiles's reply. He won't say it'd be easier to miss the Camaro with a quick glance out in the dark, or that it's probably the better option if they suddenly need a quick getaway, because Derek already knows that, and Stiles would like to win in an argument with Derek, just once, or at least not lose so stupidly.

Derek doesn't respond to that, though Stiles can practically feel the eye-roll Derek's holding back. Stiles gets that response a lot. "There."

Stiles follows the line where Derek's pointing and sees the small cabin sitting a few hundred yards away. There's light in the window and, if Stiles squints, he can see movement in there, from someone who's probably cooking dinner or something. "Anything in particular we're looking for?"

Derek doesn't look at him, focusing instead on the cabin. "Just anything unusual."

"Unusual how? Unabomber-unusual? Dexter-unusual? Giant bird-creature that's going to fly out the window and peck our eyes out-unusual?"

"Just anything that doesn't look or feel right, okay?"

"Yeah, all right, fine, whatever," Stiles says, undoing his seatbelt and settling in for a long night of sitting beside Mr. I-Don't-Do-Conversation-Like-Regular-Human-Beings. Stiles would chalk that up to the whole werewolf thing, but Scott's not really gotten all that cranky or averse to back-and-forth verbal interactions since changing, so Stiles figures it's more a thing specific to Derek Hale, Brooder Extraordinaire.

For the first hour, nothing really happens. For the second hour, even less happens, and Stiles makes a concerted effort not to fidget and incur Derek's wrath. During the third hour, Stiles figures he can either sit here all night, doing nothing other than listen to Derek breathe until the regularity of it puts him to sleep, or he can occupy himself so he doesn't just lose it and start flailing and shouting due to some combination of boredom and frustration.

Derek finally looks somewhere other than at the cabin -- actually, more of a shack, as far as these structures go -- as Stiles shifts. And when Stiles leans forward and reaches between his feet to unzip the backpack he's brought along, Derek finally remembers how to communicate verbally. "What are you doing?"

"Standard stakeout procedure," Stiles says, reaching into his bag. He retrieves the two items he'd put at the top, knowing he'd need them. The thermos of coffee, he leans up against his lower leg, pinning it upright between his calf and the rise of the center console. The other thing gets top priority and the place on his lap.

"Donuts." Derek's voice is laced with disbelief and disapproval, but Stiles shrugs it off, uses his thumbnail to break the little sticker over the box's paper tab, and flips open the lid, trying to decide which one he's going to eat first. "You're going to eat those things. In my car."

"Nah, I thought I'd get out and wander into the woods for a mile or so, and eat them there. Or, hey, I could walk on down to that shack down there and see if the dude inside wants one." He selects a donut coated in cinnamon powdered sugar and takes a bite. "You know, if you think that's a better idea," he says around his mouthful.

Derek glowers at him. There's no other word to describe it, Stiles thinks, as he takes a second bite. More than a glare, which Derek seems to have mastered long before Stiles ever met him. "You're going to eat the whole dozen," Derek finally says a few minutes later, and Stiles would expect that to be a question from most people, but it's not from Derek, and Derek's not exactly 'most people,' anyway. The werewolf heritage and fucked-up past sort of yanked him out of that category a long time ago.

Stiles pauses with another donut -- raspberry filling inside, granulated sugar outside -- halfway to his mouth. "What?" he retorts. "I came prepared. Besides, dude," he says, taking a bite and wondering if he can juggle the thermos of coffee along with the donuts, or if he'd have to put them down to pour himself a cup, "I assumed you wouldn't like them. I've seen you shirtless, okay? That is not the...stomach-physique-thing of a man who eats donuts. Seemed like pretty decent evidence to me."

Derek just glowers some more and mutters something. Stiles doesn't make out every word, but he's pretty sure it's something about increased heat-output and a fast metabolism. And either way, Derek hasn't snapped at Stiles so much as he's...pouted at him.

"Wait," Stiles says as that thought comes to him. He nearly sprays a bit of donut out onto the dashboard in that word, and he swallows hugely, knowing he probably resembles a chipmunk, with his mouth stuffed so full. He tries again when his mouth's empty. "Wait. You totally love donuts, don't you? You want one, huh?"

Derek doesn't say yes, but the look on his face gets even more sour, and Stiles knows he's right. "You want one of my donuts!" Stiles crows, and it's stupid, but he feels an odd amount of power right now, knowing he has something Derek wants. "I might be willing to share, but you'd have to say 'please' first." He looks down at the box's remaining contents and turns a sympathetic glance Derek's way. "Oh, wait, no, I'm sorry. All that's left is the chocolate kind, and doggies can't _have_ chocolate, can they?"

"My cousin died from eating a chocolate donut," Derek says flatly.

The face-splitting grin on Stiles's face evaporates in an instant, and he feels like someone's punched him in the stomach. He can't even come up with a good apology. All he can do is sort of gape and flail wordlessly for a moment, until it hits him that Derek's smirking, just a little.

"Oh, you fucker," Stiles whispers, still at least a little thankful his big mouth hasn't actually made a joke about something that's killed one of Derek's family members, because that's the sort of thing he never wants to do. Stiles has too many feelings on the subject of deceased loved ones.

Derek just smirks a little more openly.

"See if you ever get _any_ of my donuts," Stiles huffs, shifting the box farther away. "You'll never get so much as a crumb."

And just like that, Derek's in his space, even with the gear shift between them, faster than Stiles can really follow, because werewolves are fucking quick. "Really?" he whispers, and Stiles's heart beats rabbit-fast in his chest as Derek shifts even closer. "Really, Stiles? Not even a crumb?"

Words are so not happening, not even those sarcastic in nature. Stiles doesn't have a hell of a lot in the way of non-verbal weapons, and those are rendered inaccessible by the way Derek is practically leaning into him, way closer than Stiles can feel relaxed about.

Stiles isn't imagining the way his heart pounds, either, because Derek's eyes flick down, looking right at that spot on Stiles's chest, like he can see through the fabric and his skin and his muscles and ribs, can watch as it slams frantically in its place, making Stiles wonder if Derek will sense a fatal heart attack moments before Stiles even has it.

It's like Derek has two settings: intense and unconscious. Or maybe three: intense, unconscious, and grumpy. Stiles is definitely receiving something from the far end of the 'intense' spectrum right now, and there's been no clear, verbal threat, no insistence that Derek's going to rip Stiles's throat out with his teeth this time. Still, this has Stiles breathing hard and nearly trembling in a way that very clear, direct threat did not.

Whatever Derek's muttered about metabolism's got to be true, because Stiles is acutely aware of the heat Derek's radiating; he can feel it almost as if Derek's actually touching him, one hand on Stiles's thigh, or their chests pressed together. The thought's crazy -- flat-out _insane_ \-- but not as much as the curiosity of what it would feel like to suddenly have Derek's hands actually on his thigh or chest, or his mouth pressed firmly against Stiles's own.

He's going to die out here tonight, on this stupid, totally unproductive stakeout. If he doesn't have a heart attack, Derek's going to tear him to tiny shreds if he catches wind of what Stiles has just been thinking.

"N-nope," Stiles finally manages to reply, wishing his voice didn't want to stammer and stutter along with his heart.

Derek locks eyes with him (and, dear, sweet Jesus, they're hypnotic, some color that he can't even name, and how has Stiles only ever noticed Derek's eye color when they're all glowing and wolfy before this?), and Stiles thinks that this moment might rank up there with all the times he's gotten his ass paralyzed with kanima venom, on a 'my body won't do what I tell it to do' level. Although, that may be because he's about equally torn between touching Derek, and opening the door and running the fuck away before he does touch him. "Oh, I think you want to give me some, all right," Derek murmurs, and Stiles bites down on a whimper and tries to will his dick to behave itself.

There are no words Stiles can say, because if he opens his mouth, he's going to attack Derek with it, or maybe even puke from sheer nerves or something, and any word he does manage to say will probably just be a helpless squeak. He has no idea if this is a werewolf thing, or an alpha thing, or just a Derek thing, but fuck, this is intense.

Derek smiles, but it's predatory, and Stiles is okay with that, really, he is. And when Derek reaches over and brushes his thumb against the corner of Stiles's mouth, fuck it, he's done, and no amount of willpower he possesses saves him from letting out a small moan.

The smile on Derek's face widens, his expression sharpens, and he holds up his thumb so that Stiles can see the crumb of donut and sugar on it. Without a word, Derek sticks his thumb into his mouth and sucks on it, making a low, content noise. Stiles is pretty sure his blood pressure's at unsafe levels, and if he doesn't black out or come in his pants, or maybe both at once, it'll be a miracle.

"You know," Derek says when Stiles doesn't respond (and this has got to be some sort of record or freak occurrence, with Derek talking and Stiles speechless), "I could always just _take_ what I want, too." And before Stiles even has a chance to figure out what the hell _that_ means (it sounds dangerous, but also seriously promising), Derek's left arm snakes over and plucks a donut from the box precariously resting atop Stiles's right knee.

"Just. Like. That." Derek's full-on smirking now, back in his seat and holding up the donut -- chocolate, with chocolate glaze and chocolate sprinkles -- for Stiles to see. He's triumphant, and so obviously pleased with himself, and Stiles can't fucking _think_ because all that was really about a donut? _Seriously_?

Stiles splutters in response, nothing whatsoever coherent about it, probably because he has no idea what to say, and his brain can't seem to grasp the concept of making words, let alone get them to come out of his mouth. Derek chuckles, low and rich, then breaks the donut in two, laying one half on the knee of his jeans. He takes a large bite from the other half, leaving very little left, and Stiles finally opens his mouth, ready to at least attempt some lame sort of admonition for being so rude about it, or not even savoring his spoils.

Only, before he can, Derek's leaning in Stiles's space again, not quite as intensely, but still close, and Stiles doesn't even get a full word out before Derek's popping the remaining bite of donut into Stiles's mouth. "Shh," he murmurs, letting his thumb trail against Stiles's lower lip as he pulls his hand away. "Just enjoy it."

Stiles nods vigorously and swallows his mouthful, and when Derek leans in and nips softly at his lower lip before running his tongue over it, Stiles plans to listen to Derek's instructions.

This, he can enjoy the hell out of.


End file.
